Curling at Leaside

I pulled on the red slider. I chose a broom.
I listened carefully to Heather. When she
crouched, I crouched. When she put the
butt end of her broom on the toe of her
shoe, so did I. When she pushed off and
slid and curled her stone into the
button, well how was it that I ended up careening
over the side of the curling rink and
jeopardizing three lanes of curlers while
recovering, in a Buster Keaton move, my
balance on the pebbled ice? Why was I the
only one of the eight of us to spend the
next day in bed reading Joseph Roth?